Trial say hello to error.
Destiny plays it's part.
Together they make music, no art.
Apart, separated, alone. 
All of which remain synonyms for the Impossible. 
Success is never guarenteed, the percentage is unknown.
Failure is to common, the ying improbable.
Everything shrouded in black. Nothing. Question. 
Effort never put to waste,
At least if you learn a lesson.

Eyelashes battle like trees for the sunlight.
Theres dust in your eyes and your swiffer just wont cut it.
Knowledge is amazing, even one byte.
It'll set you free, so flit.

Eyelashes calm like an ever watching storm.
Theres dust in your hands and its to heavy to lift.
Trapped indefinitely in a chrysalis form.
Waiting to spread your wings, now flit.

Eyelashes open wide like night engulfing day.
Theres dust on your wings and your beginning to emit.
You've grown to much, minuscule things cant block your way.
Freedom radiates from you, so just flit.

You made it, Mc hammer too legit to quit.
Your a full fledge butterfly, now do what you see fit.

Even when the rain it pours
Seven senses scream some more
Steven gets odd to form the chlor
and
Eden calls with bright decor

Remember the wine
Remember the roses
Remember the times
and
Remember the tree line
Because in the end our cause and plausible reasoning for being,
are nothing more than rain that pours and ruins our decor.

You're in every crack on the tar,
Hiding beneath layers for days and weeks.
You're there when I close my eyes,
Arms painted purple by your fingertips.
You're in the front of my mind holding my hand,
blowing out smoke
Or blowing a kiss.
You're holding me against the bed,
Running barefoot across your lawn.
You couldn't control your fists
And I couldn't control my heart
So I guess we both killed each other in silent ways.

Shivering fingers, cradling a cold clay bowl
with dull roses surrounding the rim.
A Klondike bar cut like a grid on a paper towel.
My grandma used to let me eat one in the living room
"careful of the carpet"
on her yellow couches covered with sticky plastic.
She would play the Elvis Presley Christmas album,
To Ginny written in black sharpie on the sleeve
with a Love always, Mom underneath,
over and over again
while she hung bulbs of wood on the bottom branches
so her Welsh Corgi wouldn't break them with his paws.

Slate slabs with handprints
in purple paint every year for the holiday.
She'd set death aside in a coffin ashtray
to kiss my cheek.
Presley played in the background.

She'd rock
on the front porch in white wicker
coughing into the lid of a Pepsi can
until she'd catch me pressing my nose against the door glass,
tell me to turn around and sit on the couch.
It was too cold for me.
She'd only be a minute.

When we played, I'd hide between the two baskets
in the closet that held her hair products.
I could count all the bottles three times each
before she'd say she was too tired,
put on her coat, grab a white box, and hit play.
I always hated that album.

There was a strange moment
where time itself seemed to slow down
to a hundredth of a second
where everything was perfect.

Maybe it was just
the last vestiges of the sunset
dancing off your hair,
or maybe it was just a trick of the eye.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just,
because I like the way you smoke,
the way the colour accents your eyes,
in the mere moments that pass as you exhale.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just
because your smile ignited sparks,
that warmed me like the soft glow of a candle
as darkness started to fall.

But for a moment,
there was perfection.

Maybe it was just,
the way your voice lifted my spirits
as if nothing at all,
could make you happier.

For a moment,
there was perfection.
But for a lifetime,
there was true happiness.